Highlander: Dark Genesis
by Arius Miura de Galdri
Summary: Chapter 3: Shaken by his encounter with the so-called Headhunter, Dmitri returns home to Sarah. Meanwhile, the Watchers and Joe also learn of the attack, and put a desperate plan into action...
1. Prologue: Murder by Moonlight

**Highlander:**

**Dark Genesis**

**PROLOGUE**

"**Murder by Moonlight."**

_October 22, 2006 A.D._

_Paris, France_

Grant watched.

From his position across the street, the young Watcher could hear the sounds of revelry literally _pouring_ out from within the small, smoky tavern. In the dim illumination cast by the flickering street lights, Grant appeared entirely average: a young man of twenty-five or thirty, with short-cropped brown hair and a pair of green eyes that never seemed to miss any detail, regardless of how small or seemingly inconsequential. He pulled his black leather jacket tighter around him as a strange chill that had nothing to do with the autumn cold crept up his spine.

Tonight, something just felt… _wrong_.

Grant reached into his front pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes, instantly slipping one into his mouth and lighting it with a match that appeared seemingly out of nowhere. As he placed the cigarettes back into his pocket, the green-eyed Watcher pulled something else out: a small digital camera with state of the art night-vision and video capabilities. The Watchers obviously spared no expense.

_Thank God I'm doing this in the digital age_, Grant thought with a slight chuckle. Without warning, the combination of the cold air and his smoke-filled lungs caused the shivering Watcher to cough uncontrollably; he leaned back against the streetlamp and covered his mouth as the fit finally died down. _Too bad _I'm_ not immortal. These damn things are gonna kill me!_ Further introspection was interrupted as the door of the tavern across the street opened suddenly, and a figure very familiar to Grant stepped out into the chill fall evening.

_Lucas Quentin… How'd I ever manage to get stuck Watching _this_ guy? What a piece of work…_

Quentin, born Lucius Quintus in the year 98 A.D., was considered something of a joke among the other Watchers, which made him a perfect candidate for Grant's first field assignment. Quentin had once been a respected Roman officer during the rule of Emperor Hadrian, but after his "first death" occurred during the Bar Kokhba revolt in 132 A.D., the newly-immortal soldier turned to a life of eternal gambling, womanizing, and drinking.

It was a life style that Quentin had maintained with near-religious fervor for almost two-thousand years now.

_It's unbelievable that no one's taken this guy's head yet_, Grant thought as he sauntered down the street, staying in the shadows as he attempted to follow Quentin through the dark back-alleys of Paris. As the young Watcher tracked his quarry through the cold evening, he periodically stopped to snap a quick shot with his digital camera, resisting the urge to switch to the small device's video mode. _No video_, he scolded himself, remembering the few months of intensive field training that he'd undergone back home in the States.

Several yards ahead of him, a staggering drunk Quentin turned a sharp corner, forcing Grant to break out into a slow jog to catch up. It wasn't really very far, but for some reason, each step seemed to slow down the world around the Watcher, and a disconcerting chill began to shoot up and down his spine. He stopped in place, listening intently for the faint sound of shuffling footsteps, of retching, of any indication that Quentin was continuing his drunken meander through the streets of Paris. Grant strained his ears, closing his eyes to shut out any other distractions. Just one sound…

_There!_

Cautiously, Grant turned the corner, only to be confronted by a sight that filled him with an irrational sense of dread.

The alleyway had turned into an almost-entirely enclosed dead-end, with the only way in or out—besides the one Grant and Quentin had entered from—being a narrow, pitch-black space between two large, dark stone buildings. In the center of this small urban clearing, Lucas Quentin was hunched over, vomiting out the scant contents of his stomach. He slowly stood up and staggered toward the far corner, only to continue his horrid retching. Just then, a hint of movement caught the young Watcher's attention, from _within_ the shadowy, narrow passageway.

_There's someone there…_

Slowly, _menacingly_, a tall form stepped silently out from the darkened divide, his steps purposeful and confident. Clothed as he was from head to toe in an all-concealing, jet-black hooded robe, Grant was unable to make out any of the broad-shouldered, hulking man's features. The mysterious newcomer took several more steps, until he stood directly behind the nauseated Quentin. The drunk immortal showed no signs that he even realized the immense stranger was there, engrossed as he was in his own suffering. Before Grant could react, the tall figure reached inside his cloak…

And pulled out a wicked looking, massive broadsword.

_Another immortal!_ Grant thought frantically, kneeling down to stop the shaking of his legs as he readied his camera. Just after the initial shock of finding his assigned target being stalked by another swordsman, Grant was hit with a sudden realization. _No, not an immortal… Drunk or not, Quentin would have _sensed_ his approach! Is this some kind of joke? A _mortal_ hunting for the head of an _immortal

Finally, after wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, Lucas Quentin must have sensed something, or heard some slight sound from behind him. As he spun around on legs of rubber, Quentin caught sight of the massive figure that stood ready to challenge him. From within his long, dark brown trench-coat, Quentin drew his own blade, a slender, razor-sharp rapier that had no chance of blocking a direct hit from the stranger's broadsword.

Quentin would have to rely on the two things that his intoxication had robbed him of: speed and coordination. The mysterious, broadsword-wielding warrior took a single step forward, forcing Quentin to leap back drunkenly as he held his rapier tightly in his trembling hand.

For a moment, nothing happened, and Grant found himself holding his breath as, for reasons he didn't entirely understand, the young Watcher slowly switched his camera to video mode. A sinister laugh, emanating from the shrouded stranger, brought the green-eyed young man back to his senses. A brief moment of silence followed, until Quentin shouted something at his mysterious adversary, his words too slurred for Grant, who had wisely kept his distance, to understand. The Roman's frenzied cry echoed ominously throughout the dead-end alleyway.

Then, the stranger spoke.

"You think me a mortal?" his strong voice carried all the way to Grant's distant ears. He spoke in perfect, completely unaccented French, a language that, despite his intensive training, Grant _still_ had some trouble understanding.

Instinctively, the Watcher began recording, ignoring the nagging voice in the back of his head that pleaded incessantly with him to remember his training. He knew, for it had been ingrained within his mind, that recording an immortal's conflict on any sort of video device was strictly prohibited within the Watchers' organization. Despite his fact, though, Grant had a strange feeling that what he was seeing now would undoubtedly change the Game forever.

"Oh, how truly far our kind have fallen," the deep-voiced stranger continued, readying his formidable blade for what was sure to be a killing strike. Seeing the look of undisguised confusion that must have played across Quentin's drunken features, the black-cloaked man let loose with another chilling laugh. "Very well then, allow me to show you the power of a _true_ immortal…"

Before the words could register in Grant's mind, the air around him seemed to grow thick. A quiet gasp escaped the Watcher's lips as the LCD screen of his digital camera suddenly became obscured with static. From further down the darkened alley, Quentin could be heard crying out in disbelief, and the unmistakable sound of steel striking concrete heralded the fall of the Roman's rapier from his uncontrollably shaking hand. With widened eyes, Quentin fell to his knees before his soon-to-be-executioner.

"What had you hoped to accomplish with this toy of yours?" the mysterious figure asked, bending down to pick Quentin's fallen rapier up with his black-gloved left hand. All the while, the atmosphere of the shadowy alleyway continued to grow heavy as the black-clad stranger sustained his unearthly aura. With one swift movement, the hooded warrior swung his left had with all his might, striking the nearby wall of an abandoned building with Quentin's weapon, shattering the sword into hundreds of pieces that made a hypnotizing sound as they fell musically to the ground around their former master.

Throughout all of this, Lucas Quentin remained on his knees, his features frozen into a mask of unmistakable shock.

Grant shrunk back further into the shadows, keeping his still-recording camera pointed in the direction of the two combatants despite the obvious interference that the stranger's aura was causing. _I have to get out of here… I have to run_, Grant kept telling himself as the cold sweat of fear trickled slowly down his spine. _He'll… He'll kill me._ Yet, despite the mind-numbing terror that had gripped him, Grant continued to record the macabre events that were unfolding before him.

The stranger spoke again.

"And now, my brother," he said slowly, menacingly, "now is the time for our most ancient and sacred of rules." With torturously slow movements, the black-robed, massive man raised his frightening blade high above his head.

Quentin didn't move.

Grant's breath caught in his throat.

"There can be only one."

The blade fell.

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 1: Son of Sparta

**Highlander:**

**Dark Genesis**

**CHAPTER 1**

"**Son of Sparta."**

_March 10, 2007 A.D._

_Chicago, IL_

The couple exited the theater.

"Well?" the young woman asked, her bright green eyes shining with amusement and curiosity as she slipped her arm around her date's waist. As always, Dmitri had both his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his long, black leather jacket; his pale blue eyes were fixed on the ground as the two of them walked hastily forward. When she realized that Dmitri had no intention of answering her question, the girl stopped and crossed her arms stubbornly. A chill spring breeze, still holding a hint of winter, stirred her shoulder-length, raven-black hair as she pulled her long red scarf tighter around her neck.

After several paces, the hauntingly silent man—Dmitri—finally stopped. For a moment, neither of them moved, their stillness seeming even stranger when compared to the bustling streets full of people around them. Even at this late hour, Chicago never really slept, not like some cities. Finally, Dmitri turned around, using one black-gloved hand to brush a lock of his long, dark hair out of his eyes. If the young woman was expecting a verbal response from her date, she was about to be sorely disappointed.

Dmitri simply shrugged.

"Jesus, Dmitri," the green-eyed woman sighed. After taking a few steps forward, she rejoined her date and the two began the long trek back to their home in Chicago's North Side. They could have taken the L, or even a cab, but Dmitri always preferred to walk, sometimes to the chagrin of his young lover. "So… did it bring back memories or anything? What'd you think? Was it 'historically accurate'?" The girl's seemingly unending stream of questions stopped abruptly when Dmitri came to a sudden halt beside her. "Dmitri?"

"Memories? 'Historically accurate'?" The words that the quiet young man spoke were each punctuated by a small cloud of steam as his warm breath hit the cool spring air.

"I'm sorry… Did I say something wrong?"

Dmitri was silent again, but his ice-blue eyes had taken on quite a distant look. It was a look that the young woman knew all too well. Finally, Dmitri spoke.

"Sarah… It was, _over the top_, to say the least." Dmitri's soft voice had assumed the same distant echo as his eyes, which were locked on some unknown point in the sprawling city before them.

"So… What was it really like, then?" Sarah asked, her green eyes wide with curiosity. Dmitri never, _ever_ talked about his past. But how could she blame him? There was just too much to tell…

"If you would have asked me then, I would've told you it was exhilarating… _Fun_ even."

"But now?" Sarah prompted, a slight twinkle in her eyes.

"It was a nightmare…"

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_August 18, 480 B.C._

_The Pass of Thermopylae, Greece_

The King shouted.

Hundreds of spears were thrust into the air as an answering cry went up from the gathered men. Shields were instantly readied as the Spartan soldiers, like a well-oiled machine, immediately drew together into their defensive phalanx formation. In the distance, to the west of the defenders, the sprawling army of Xerxes, King of the Persian Empire, could be seen lying in wait, prepared to roll over the small army of united Greeks at any given moment. As the Greeks' vanguard of three-hundred Spartan hoplites prepared to meet this grave threat head on, one of their number turned his cold blue eyes to the uneasy grey sea which roared against the coast to the army's right.

_Themistocles' fleet should have encountered the Persians at sea by now_, the young Spartan thought, scanning the horizon for any sign of a decisive naval battle. _If they've lost, the Persians will be able to land their ships and come in behind us. We've too few men to hold off an assault from both sides…_

"Demetrius!" a strong voice shouted from down the line. "Stay focused, lad. They'll not take the pass _this_ day, not while any of us still draws breath!" A roar of concurrence rose from the three-hundred men, instantly breaking the thick tension that had descended upon the soon-to-be battlefield.

"Aye, Dienekes," Demetrius replied with a slight grin, ignoring the sweat that ran copiously down the back of his neck. "They'll pay for every inch in blood!" A second shout of agreement exploded from the men, only to be silenced a moment later by a voice that tolerated _no_ argument.

"Men, ready yourselves; here they come!" Leonidas, Sparta's King, bellowed from the center of the Spartan line. The bright red crest of horse hair that adorned the top of his bronze helmet identified the King to his men, who felt their morale rise substantially at the sight of their leader, who was prepared to fight and die just as readily as _they_ were. "May all your spears find their marks this day, Spartans! May Xerxes piss himself when he witnesses what free men can accomplish!" Before any of the hoplites could voice their approval of their King's words, the pass of Thermopylae echoed violently with the sounds of slaughter.

The clatter of steel on steel filled the air as the first wave of Xerxes' men, the Medes, clashed with the Greek vanguard. Try as they might, despite their ravenous desire to see the arrogant Spartans cut down, the Medes were unable to break through the hoplites' iron-clad phalanx. For what felt like hours, the two sides struggled back and forth over the same narrow strip of land; the Medes doing their best to massacre the Spartans, while Leonidas' and his three-hundred men simply let the Persians expend themselves against their seemingly impenetrable formation.

"Spartans!" Leonidas' voice cut through the clamor of battle. "Push!"

Immediately, the hoplites who made up the phalanx's front row stepped forward, using their heavy shields to drive the now-surprised Medes back as spears were readied by every Greek warrior.

"Spartans!" the King shouted once again, his very voice igniting the fires of loyalty within his men. "Take them!"

Young Demetrius, with Dienekes at his left and a heavily muscled, mountain of a man named Thesius at his right, went quickly on the offensive. The Spartan soldiers who made up the phalanx each knew their role perfectly, and as the front held their shields steady to ward off the blows of the frenzied Persians, those behind—in the second and third ranks—crouched low and thrust forward and up with their long spears, slipping the weapons easily between their fellow Greeks and killing dozens of Medes, who fell screaming to the beaten earth.

The battle became a maddening repetition of crouch, thrust, and defend, crouch, thrust, and defend. When a Spartan fell, a member from the second rank immediately stepped forward, readied his shield, and took his place, leaving a member of the _third_ rank to take _his_ place. The phalanx was flawless, and as the hours ran on, Persians died by the hundreds. The air was filled with the cries of the dying, the scent of blood, and with choking clouds of dust and dirt that were kicked up by the desperately struggling men.

He didn't know how long this macabre spectacle went on; all Demetrius knew was that, at the end of the day, he was exhausted, sweating, and drenched in the blood of his fallen enemies. It seemed, though, that the Persian forces had retreated, having been bested by only a small portion of the united Greek army. The weary Spartan hoplite could barely stand, though he knew that rest was still a long way off, for the bodies of the slain had to be removed, and such gruesome work always went to the victor. Demetrius wiped the sticky, stinking blood from his face with the back of his hand, though it made little difference, as his hand was just as red-stained as his face had been. A slight smile played across his features, still flushed from the exhilaration of battle.

This, after all, was what he was meant to do, what he was _born_ to do. Demetrius knew that—like all of the hoplites who had fought, and died, today—_his_ destiny had been chosen for him from birth: it was his _duty_ to slay the enemies of Sparta, to defend her freedom. Demetrius would gladly die before seeing any Spartan, or any free Greek for that matter, bow before a dog like Xerxes.

Greece would never submit.

Today had been a culmination of all his training, all his hard work, and Demetrius was ready for more. He had killed many during the day's hellish battle, but there were still more to come, _thousands_ more… For Demetrius, tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.

"You did well today, boy," Demetrius heard Thesius' voice say from behind him. "_Very_ well. This was your first battle, no? " Thesius burst out into a roaring laugh as he lifted two dead Medes easily onto either shoulder, his dark eyes sparkling with amusement in his filthy and bloodied face. "I thought the King was only bringing his most trusted, battle-tested men to this one. How is it _you_ managed to be invited?"

"I wasn't invited," Demetrius replied, lifting a Persian corpse over his left shoulder. "But I came anyway," he continued with a wry smile as he walked beside Thesius toward the mound of dead. Looking over the gathered corpses, Demetrius voiced the question that had been troubling him all day. "How many of ours?" he asked, inclining his head toward the mound.

"Well, let's see," Thesius responded, dropping his burdens and rubbing his dark, gore-encrusted beard thoughtfully. "I saw Hermacles fall, and Darius, _and_ Marconus. Therian and Dienekes were both wounded, though I doubt that Therian will make it through the night." A shadow of sorrow clouded Thesius' face for a moment as he recalled his fallen brothers, loyal men who had fought and given their lives for their precious Sparta. "But we won't dishonor our dead by laying them here with these dogs." He pointed toward the narrow opening of the pass. "They shall be kept behind out lines, until we are victorious and can take them home, upon their shields…"

Demetrius nodded as he stooped to lift another body onto this aching shoulder, ignoring the stench of death that permeated the corpse-littered battlefield. _And it will only get worse, I'm afraid… This won't be over in a day, or even a hundred days._ This thought, however, didn't fill the young Spartan with fear, or even resignation. Instead, Demetrius found himself filled with a morbid sense of excitement, and he couldn't wait for another shot at those who would enslave and destroy his people.

Once again, just as before the battle, Demetrius turned his pale blue eyes to the angry sea.

"I wonder," Thesius said wistfully, also turning his attention toward the grey waves, "I wonder how Themistocles' battle is faring?" A broad grin split his dark beard as he returned his attention to Demetrius. "He leads a fleet, but _I'll_ bet that that damned Athenian is barely more than a lousy fisherman at best, eh?" He chuckled again to himself as he and Demetrius started their journey back to the ever-growing hill of bodies. "Steel yourself, lad," Thesius said suddenly into the silence, "for tomorrow will be even worse…"

The setting sun cast a vile red glow upon the battlefield, and the men labored on.

And Demetrius prayed that Thesius was right…

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_March 10, 2007 A.D._

_Chicago, IL_

Dmitri stared vacantly into the flames.

"He was a great man," he spoke, finally breaking the silence that had followed his tale. He gently swirled the still-full wineglass that he held in his left hand, his right arm draped comfortably around Saran's slight shoulders. The fire in the hearth was roaring, warming the large living room of Dmitri's expansive, _expensive_ home in the North Side of the city.

"Leonidas?" Sarah asked, sitting up a little higher to better see her lover's expression. The two were lounging comfortably in the massive, soft, enveloping sofa that Sarah had insisted Dmitri buy for situations _exactly_ like this one. She set her half-empty glass on the table beside the sofa as the shadow of a smile played across Dmitri's oh-so-serious features.

"Yes, Leonidas was a great man," Dmitri responded quietly, looking down at the young woman beside him. He returned his gaze to the fire as he continued. "But he isn't the one I meant…"

"Oh," Sarah said, slightly embarrassed. "You mean that friend of yours… Thesius?" When Dmitri nodded, the green-eyed woman smiled and snuggled closer, enjoying simply being close to the man she adored.

"History will always remember our King," Dmitri said after a few moments of heavy silence. When Sarah perked up slightly, the dark-haired immortal took a small sip from his wineglass. "And he was a great leader, and a brave, noble man, don't misunderstand me. But…"

"But what?"

Dmitri remained dubiously silent, and Sarah feared that she may have crossed the line. The seemingly-young man beside her hardly ever revealed anything of his past; hell, he hardly ever spoke at all unless he felt it was really necessary, but it seemed something had been brought out in him tonight. Maybe it was the film, or maybe the wine, but for some reason, Dmitri seemed more willing to talk than usual.

Sarah was delighted.

"Its going to sound petty, I know," Dmitri replied. "But, it feels _wrong_ somehow. Everyone of those men who died were great men; loyal to their country and each other, fearless, powerful, just amazing, _strong_ men." He shifted his position a little, bringing his arm closer around Sarah. "And no one else, no one in the _entire world_ but me will ever really know that. No one will remember them… Thesius and the others."

Once again, a heavy, almost ominous silence descended upon the fire-lit chamber. In comparison, the quiet crackling of the flames seemed dreadfully loud, and the hiss of the wind blowing down the chimney sent chills down Sarah's spine, causing her to shiver a little. Dmitri held her closer.

"What happened to him? To Thesius, I mean," Sarah asked, brushing a strand of jet-black hair from her face and tucking it lightly behind her ear. She immediately regretted asking such a question, for she suddenly remembered that all of the three-hundred Spartan hoplites had been killed during the final day of battle.

_Well, all but one anyway_, she mentally added.

"On the third day—the _final_ day," Dmitri surprised Sarah by answering. "He… He took a deathblow meant for me. He gave his life to save me." His voice was soft, subdued, and when Sarah looked into his eyes and saw the gathering moisture, she felt nearly sick to her stomach. "He died in vain, I guess…"

"Don't say that," Sarah scolded, hugging Dmitri tightly. "How could you have know? How could _he_ have known, Dmitri, that you would've just… just come back to life?" The last Spartan remained silent as he took another drink. "Dmitri?" Sarah asked softly, taking his hand. "You… You died for the first time then, right?"

There was no response.

"What happened? I mean," Sarah furrowed her brow for a moment as she searched for the right words. "What I mean is, what was it like? Did you know what was going on, or what?"

"That's enough," Dmitri said, perhaps a little more harshly than he'd intended, judging from the way Sarah flinched. "I'm sorry, but I've said too much already." With that, Dmitri set his wineglass aside and stood to his feet, walking slowly toward the room's large bay window to gaze out upon the city lights. He said nothing more.

"Dmitri, I'm sorry… I didn't mean to—"

"Don't worry about it, Sarah," he cut in, shaking his head. "I just don't want to talk about my past anymore, okay?" He turned his glance away from the window, locking eyes with his young lover. Finally he continued. "I wasn't always a good person, Sarah. I've killed a lot of people; people who were better than me, who deserved to _live_ more than me. I've killed in wars, and I've killed for fun… For _fun_, Sarah…" His voice trailed off as he returned his attention to the view from the window.

Sarah kept quiet, sensing that Dmitri had more to say. This was, by far, both the greatest _and _most frightening evening she'd spent with her beloved since the terrible night when she'd found out about him… About what he was. The memory caused her to tremble slightly, and she wrapped her arms around herself to stave off a sudden chill.

Dmitri's voice was cold when he continued.

"How ashamed of me he'd be…"

"Wh… Who?" Sarah stammered. "You mean Thesius? Do you think he'd be ashamed of the things you did, of the people you killed?" She knew she was pushing her limits, but on the other hand, she also understood that she would never—_never—_ have an opportunity like this again. Dmitri never opened up, not even to her.

"No, not Thesius," Dmitri answered with a quiet, bitter laugh. "You see, that's the way we were raised, as Spartans. Killing, fighting, war… They were all just parts of our normal, everyday life. No, Thesius would probably care less."

"Then who?"

"Scherez."

"Oh… And, um, who's that?" Sarah asked, her voice quavering with anticipation. "Was he a friend of yours?"

"No, not really a friend," Dmitri replied, his voice soft, barely audible over the crackling of the fire. "He found me, that day… He taught me what I was, and helped me come to terms with everything." With what may have been a sigh, the blue-eyed immortal turned his back to the window and walked toward the blazing fireplace, his gaze fixed on the glimmering, ancient, familiar weapon that he had once used to kill so many; the weapon that now hung unused on the wall above his mantle. "Looking back now, I realize that he was truly a great man…"

"What happened to him?" Sarah asked cautiously, standing to her feet and preparing to go to Dmitri's side. Before she'd even taken a step, the last son of Sparta turned his icy blue eyes on her, freezing her in place with a steely glare.

"I killed him."

_To be continued…_


	3. Chapter 2: Headhunter

**Highlander:**

**Dark Genesis**

**CHAPTER 2**

"**Headhunter."**

_March 10, 2007_

_Seacouver, WA_

Joe played.

Though the bar was empty, the former Watcher played, as he always did, like there was a full house. The deep, emotion-laden notes filled the darkness, creating a somber atmosphere that the old man loved. Customers or not, _bar_ or not, Joe would never stop playing his music.

The door opened, and two men—one middle-aged and the other young—entered the establishment, pausing a moment as the sounds of Joe's playing drifted over them. When the music paused, the two strangers walked to the middle of the bar, leaning back against the hard wood surface, their eyes locked intently on the man on stage.

"Can I help you gentleman?" Joe asked, setting his guitar aside and, with a little effort, standing to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. "Get you anything to drink? Play anything special for you?" He smiled as he approached the two, walking past them and behind the bar. "What'll it be?"

"Joe Dawson?" the older of the two men asked. Despite the shadowy atmosphere of the blue's club, the stranger wore a pair of dark sunglasses, his eyes left unseen behind. His cheeks and chin were covered with stubble, a day or two's worth of growth most likely, and his hair was thinning on top. Both men were well dressed, in dark suits with long, black overcoats.

"Yeah, that'd be me," Joe replied, setting a nearly-full bottle of scotch on the stained surface of the bar. "You need something?"

Rather than answer, the older of the two men simply smiled, pulling his long sleeve up and laying his forearm on the counter, wrist up. There, tattooed into the man's flesh, was a symbol _very_ familiar to Joe.

"Watchers, huh?" he asked affably. "Well why didn't you say so?" Running his hand through his short, grey beard, Joe grinned and gestured toward the rack of colorful bottles of alcohol behind him. "Take your pick, boys. _You_ get the house discount."

"We aren't here for a drink, Mr. Dawson," the younger man said harshly, removing his dark glasses and staring at Joe with a pair of intense brown eyes, the shade of which perfectly matched this shoulder-length hair. "We're here," he continued, "about the 'Headhunter.'"

Joe answered this unusual comment with silence, doing his best to keep his composure. Suddenly, Dawson was transported right back to his first years as a Watcher, a time when, unproven in the field, the young Vietnam vet had been assigned to research and archives, a relatively dull department of the Watcher organization. There, under the tutelage of a man named Wilson Gerard, Joe had began a career that had spanned most of his adult life.

While in the archives, it had been Joe's assignment, and Gerard's also, to look into unexplained and unsolved immortal deaths. It was a joke of an assignment, perfect for a new rookie and a used-up has-been, one that, as it always had throughout the ages, would keep the two of them occupied and out of the more seasoned investigators' hair. Beyond everyone's expectations, however, the two of them had come across some very disturbing connections…

First of all, nearly all of the immortals who had been killed by unknown assailants throughout the last several hundred years, all the way back to the Watchers' inception, had had their bodies dumped on the steps of the nearest church or cathedral. By doing so, of course, the mysterious murderer was apparently showing his unconcern over the consequences of his actions; he, or she, seemed not to care about whether or not the victims were discovered. Luckily, most of these corpses were discovered first by the Watchers themselves, who were able to keep the knowledge of these beheadings out of the public eye.

The second thing that had seemed unusual to Joe and Gerard was the fact that most of these immortals were old. _Very_ old. Never once was the corpse of any individual _under_ the age of a thousand found, and usually the immortals killed had numbered thousands of years old. And these deaths, these murders of ancient immortals, came but once or twice a decade, making it very difficult to track the killer. Such large holes in the archives were simply unacceptable, in Gerard's opinion.

Thirdly, the Watchers of these murdered immortals were _never_ around to witness the struggle that had ended their quarries' long lives. It was true that a Watcher couldn't possibly track their assignment twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, but it seemed awfully convenient that they were always elsewhere. This led Gerard and Joe to believe that whoever this killer was, he or she _must_ know, somehow, about the Watchers, and they always picked the right moment to strike.

After years of research, though, no real progress was made. Gerard died of cancer just three years after Joe joined up with him, and after the lead archivist's death, Dawson had been reassigned to his first field case. Any and all investigation into what Joe and Gerard had labeled as 'Headhunter' had been suspended indefinitely…

But the killings continued.

"Sorry, fella's," Joe finally said, snapping out his reverie. "You're the ones with the archives, you know. Anything that Wilson Gerard and I found out is still in there, you just have to dig it up." He set two glasses on the counter and set a level gaze upon the two Watchers. "Now, what can I get you?"

"I don't think you understand, Dawson," the older man said firmly. "We aren't here to chat about your glory days in the organization. We're here," he paused, tilting his glasses down to peer into Joe's eyes, "to draft you back into the Watchers."

Before Joe could protest, the younger man had come around the bar and placed the barrel of a gun firmly against Dawson's back.

"You can come of your own freewill," the man with the thinning hair said softly, "or we can take you. What'll it be?"

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Joe sat in stunned silence.

"That video," James Webster, the newly chosen head of the Watcher's American branch, said, "was recorded several months ago in Paris by one of our field operatives, a young man named Grant." Webster was a man in his early fifties, well-built, with short-cropped dark hair flecked here and there with grey. Like his two agents—who Joe had learned were named Creed, the elder of the two, and Herrera, the younger—Webster was dressed impeccably, and if the finery in this, his personal office, were any indication, then it would seem that the Watchers, who had been in a state of desperate disarray when Joe had left, were now quite well-to-do.

"I… I can't believe what I just saw," Dawson stammered, leaning forward to rewind the video on Webster's laptop. As it began playing again, a frightening testament to Lucas Quentin's last moments, Joe found himself as riveted by it as he had the first dozen times he's watched it in the last hour. "What do you guys make of it?"

"We had hoped that _you_ could tell _us_," Webster explained, sitting down on the edge of his desk. "Joe, after Gerard died and you were reassigned, no one else was ever put on the 'Headhunter' case." He watched Joe with his pale grey eyes, searching the other man's expression for something. "As it stands, _you_ are the expert on this… this _thing_."

"Expert?" Joe repeated as the video finished once again. "You're calling me an expert, huh? Did you guys even talk to this 'Grant' anyway? I mean, _he's_ the one who saw it first hand. _He's_ the one who experienced it…" Joe stood with the help of his cane and walked slowly over to the spacious chamber's single, large window. "I'd say Grant's your expert, Webster."

"Grant's still in a state of shock, Joe," Webster replied, gesturing to a file folder on his desk. As Dawson stepped over and picked it up, Webster continued. "The only thing we got out of him was that, after taking Quentin's head and quickening, this mysterious immortal picked up the body and carried it, _somehow _inconspicuously, all the way to the steps of Notre Dame." At this, Joe looked up from the file and locked eyes with Webster. "Sound familiar?"

"I'll be damned," Joe whispered, dropping Grant's file from fingers gone limp with disbelief. "So this is the real thing, then? This is really the Headhunter?"

"All we know for sure is that it all matches up with what you and Gerard discovered. Number one," Webster said, holding up his index finger, "Lucius Quentin was old, almost two-thousand. Number two, his body was left on the steps of holy ground. And lastly," Webster continued, gesturing toward the wall behind him, which was full of shelves upon shelves of Watcher Chronicles, "we have no record, _at all_, of any such immortal ever having been witnessed before. So you tell us, Joe: what do _you_ think?"

"What do I think?" Dawson repeated, staring at the monitor as the video played through once again. "I think I need some time to digest this. And," he went on, tapping the laptop shut with his cane, "I think I'm going to want a copy of that…"

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_March 11, 2007_

_Chicago, IL_

The fog swirled about.

Dmitri turned, picking up the subtle sounds of secretive footsteps from the mist around him. It was late and, plagued as he often was by nightmares, the blue-eyed immortal had taken to the streets of the city, hoping to clear his head and, perhaps, his conscience.

_I said too much_, Dmitri thought to himself as he strained his ears for anything unusual. _Always, I've made a special point never to reveal too much about myself, about my past…_ His eyes took on a distant look as he peered deeply into the fog.

_About what I used to be…_

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_April 27, 1941_

_Outside Athens, Greece_

Athens fell.

Dmitri watched in cold silence as the enemy—contingents of Italian and German troops—secured the city, killing many and capturing the rest. A vicious smile spread slowly across his features as he made his way down the hillside, dressed now as a common citizen, his Greek military uniform safely packed away in the rucksack over his shoulder. At his hip, concealed by the long overcoat he had stolen from a dead German soldier just moments ago, hung his _xiphos_—the short sword carried by Spartan hoplites, the very same blade, in fact, that he'd carried for most of his life.

Just before entering the city, the former Spartan warrior was stopped by a squad of Italian soldiers, the expressions on their faces proving that they were ready to cause trouble. Dmitri bowed his head in false deference and sought to make his way by them. Of course they blocked him, ordering him to halt in their tongue, that language that made Dmitri's blood boil for some reason that even _he_ didn't understand.

He simply didn't like them.

Lightning fast, a smirk of satisfaction tugging at the corner of his mouth, Dmitri drew his _xiphos_, lashing out in a shimmering arc of metal at the Italian soldier to his right. The man fell without a sound, blood gushing from the gash in his throat. Chaos erupted immediately, as each of the other men drew their pistols and began firing at Dmitri, who had quickly moved around behind another of the fascists. He too fell, with a stab wound in his back that led straight to his heart. The others lasted a bit longer, but all eventually fell to Dmitri's cold blade.

Quickly, before anyone came to investigate the gunshots, Dmitri moved onward, entering the city at last, his sword sheathed safely beneath his jacked once again. The rest of the day was like a game for the immortal Spartan, who snuck around the occupied city of Athens, dispatching in secret as many Nazi and Italian men as was humanly possible. The body count was impressive, but Dmitri had stopped counting after twenty.

As the dark-haired immortal moved deeper into Athens, a familiar, rushing sensation passed through him, forcing him to attention. This feeling, a preternatural ability to sense the presence of another immortal, had brought on an entirely new dimension to Dmitri's game, and he slowly drew his _xiphos_ as a figure emerged from the lengthening shadows of twilight.

The newcomer was tall, standing perhaps five or six inches taller than Dmitri himself. A face of smooth, sun-bronzed skin split into a smile of white teeth as the stranger noticed Dmitri, who stood stock still, sword at the ready. A slight breeze rustled the night-dark hair of the tall man, who raised a black-gloved hand to scratch his short beard. Silence fell as he studied Dmitri.

"To think, my old friend, that you and I would meet like this," the man spoke softly, the accent in his voice betraying his middle-eastern roots. "I should not be surprised to see you, of course, as you always were _quite_ the capable warrior." He paused, his dark eyes flicking down to Dmitri's drawn _xiphos_. "There should be no need for that, eh Demetrius?"

"It's 'Dmitri' now," the Spartan replied, smiling coldly, his eyes flashing with the anticipation of the battle to come. "And I believe that there _is_ a need for it." Without warning, Dmitri leapt forward, bringing his blade upward in a diagonal slash meant to sever his opponent's head from his shoulders. The man sprung back, hitting the ground and rolling only to come to his feet with his own sword, a long, curved scimitar, at the ready.

"Why this hostility, Demetrius? I have no quarrel with you!"

"I should have killed you centuries ago, Scherez!" Dmitri shouted, lunging forward, hoping to strike the former Persian officer while he was still off balance. "And I would have, had you not run away!" His blade was deflected by Scherez's own, the sound of metal on metal echoing down the empty street. "Or don't you remember what you taught me, old man?" he taunted as their blades locked once again.

"I remember," Scherez replied, batting Dmitri's _xiphos_ aside and moving with stunning speed to slash the Spartan across the ribs. "I taught you that there can be only one, Demetrius. But I bear you _no_ ill will, we do not have to fight!"

"So, which tyrant do you serve now, Persian? Hitler or Mussolini? Nazi or fascist? I'm sure neither of them is quite as noble as your dear Xerxes though, are they?" Despite his wound, Dmitri rushed Scherez, getting in as close as possible to deal damage with his much shorter blade. Regardless of how he tried, though, the Persian nimbly avoided each strike, with further enraged the blood-hungry Dmitri.

It wasn't that Scherez was a better fighter than his Spartan opponent, it was simply that Dmitri had let his lust for vengeance overpower his senses. Everything that had happened, from his reawakening as an immortal when his friends and countrymen had fallen in death around him to the attempted invasion of Greece by Xerxes centuries earlier, Dmitri placed now squarely at the feet of Scherez.

"Please, Demetrius, calm yourself!" Scherez pleaded, defending expertly against Dmitri's furious blows but refusing to lash out himself. "I have no desire to see you dead, my friend! Let bygones be bygones; let each of us go our separate ways!"

"Never!"

As Dmitri made an off balance charge that would certainly assure victory to Scherez, the Persian simply dashed aside, kicking his foot out to trip the Spartan as he moved past. Dmitri fell to the ground as Scherez lowered his scimitar, placing the cold steel blade against the blue-eyed warrior's neck. A small trickle of blood ran down the blade.

"This fight is over, Demetrius," the dark-skinned immortal said sadly, his eyes seeming to shimmer in the dark night air. "I will not take your head, my friend, for someday I believe that you and I shall meet again, and our clouded pasts will dissipate before the light of our friendship." He pulled his blade away, tucking it within the folds of his baggy tunic. "Fare you well, Demetrius." With that, he turned his back to the kneeling Spartan and began to make his way down the street.

Before Scherez had taken three steps, Dmitri was upon him, the razor edge of his _xiphos_ cutting easily through the flesh of the Persian's neck. As both head and body fell heavily to the ground, Dmitri clenched his fingers tighter about the hilt of his sword, a savage gleam in his pale blue eyes.

"As you said all those years ago, _old friend_," Dmitri said softly as the first waves of Scherez's quickening broke over him, "there can be only one…"

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_March 11, 2007_

_Chicago, IL_

The blade sang through the mist.

Lost as he was in reverie, Dmitri barely managed to duck the strike, his feet slipping on the wet pavement of the dark alleyway. Sparks lit the night as the blade, which Dmitri could now see was a massive broadsword of unique and unidentifiable design, sank deeply into the stone wall at the Spartan's back. From his position on the ground, Dmitri looked up into fog, trying in vain to make out any distinguishing features of his mysterious assailant.

While the sword-wielding attacker struggled to pull his weapon free from the wall where it was embedded, Dmitri took advantage of the situation. The long-haired Spartan leapt to his feet, remaining in a crouched position for a moment before pulling his leg back and delivering a powerful kick that took his opponent square in the stomach. With a grunt that was more annoyance than pain, the unidentified attacker—who Dmitri could now see was a black-cloaked, giant of a man—staggered backward several paces, losing his grip on the broadsword and leaving it embedded in the wall where he'd struck.

Working strictly on reflex born from thousands of years of combat, Dmitri reached into his long black jacket, only to be sorely disappointed. So lost in memories of his past life had Dmitri been, he had completely forgotten that it had been over sixty years since his jacket had concealed his _xiphos_ sword.

He was defenseless, and left with only one course of action.

Before his mysterious opponent could recover his weapon, Dmitri fled into the darkness of the city, his mind reeling with the possible ramifications of this night's events. And foremost in his thoughts was one recurring question:

_Why would a _mortal_ want to take my head?_

_To be continued…_


	4. Chapter 3: In the Beginning

**Highlander:**

**Dark Genesis**

**CHAPTER 3**

"**In the Beginning."**

_March 11, 2007_

_Chicago, IL_

The young one ran.

The towering, mysterious swordsman watched his icy-eyed quarry vanish into the fog, his footsteps fading into the general din of a city that never truly slept. A wolfish smile crept across his shadowed features, and a quick flash of amber eyes flickered in the darkness as he turned, reaching out and taking hold of his sword hilt. With a nearly imperceptible grunt, the man tore his weapon loose with a scattering of broken masonry, concealing the broadsword within his billowing cloak with a single fluid motion.

It was of no consequence, really, that the young immortal had managed to escape. Rather, this would provide a much needed bit of entertainment for the one that the humans had dubbed "Headhunter." Yes, he knew of the Watchers and their secrets; knew of the dead-end case that they had hoped would reveal his existence. But, like the Spartan who had eluded him tonight, the Watchers meant nothing really.

"Headhunter," he whispered, his rough, deep voice accompanied by the slightest puff of exhalation in the cool night air.

As his mind turned to the past, he decided that he rather liked the sound of that…

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_In the distant past…_

The city shook.

"What have you done?!" his twin brother shouted, blood running down his right cheek from the gash inflicted by the falling rubble. He held his side, hoping to staunch the seeping wound left there by his own brother's blade. "You have brought ruin upon us all with your avarice!" Another tremor, and a brazier of hot coals was flung to the ground, causing the crimson rug that divided the temple down the middle to burst into flames.

At the far end of the holy chamber, the mountainous statue of Poseidon seemed to gaze down upon the two brothers, his expression one of the deepest shame.

"Avarice you call it?" the larger built of the twins replied, his gravelly voice seething with contempt. "I only took what was mine by right of _power_! If our brothers were too weak to hold the territories gifted them by our father, then that is their own failure. Had they been stronger, then perhaps they'd not have fallen beneath my blade." As if to emphasize this, the heavily-muscled warrior readied his massive broadsword, brandishing it as a lesser man may brandish a short sword.

"Ampheres, stop this madness! We are on holy ground, we are forbidden to fight here," at this the injured twin paused, gesturing wildly to the destruction around them. "Do you not see what your actions have wrought? Do you not understand what you have done? By the gods, Ampheres, you have killed _all_ of our brothers!"

"End your sniveling, Evaemon," the one named Ampheres spat. "Ready your weapon and die like a man, as did our brothers. And fear not," a sinister grin spread across his face, lit like a demon's by the steadily growing inferno, "for soon your power will join with mine, and no one will be able to stand against me."

Evaemon swallowed hard, wiping sweat and blood from his brow on the back of his hand. He turned his head, taking his attention away from his murderous brother as a crack like thunder echoed throughout the temple. A second violent quake rocked the island then, and Evaemon looked on in horror as the head of the great Poseidon statue fell from on high, crashing against the unyielding stone floor of the holy chamber. Evaemon gasped and fell to his knees, dropping his sword as he did so.

"Father…"

He reached toward the broken countenance of Poseidon, his hand shaking as he did so. Suddenly Evaemon stopped, feeling cold steel against the back of his neck.

Ampheres chuckled as the temple continued to fall around him.

"This is the beginning of a new order, my brother. And in this new world, there is only _one_ rule." Evaemon's arm dropped to his side as he lowered his head, giving in to the hopelessness that had been threatening to overwhelm him since the day his brother had taken up this mad crusade, weeks earlier.

"Father," he uttered again, tears streaking his face and flickering in the firelight.

"And that rule is, _there can be only one_!" With a single, powerful stroke, Ampheres' blade removed his younger twin's head from his shoulders. He smiled as Evaemon's head rolled across the floor toward the statue of Poseidon, as if even in death he was determined to reach it.

Then came the quickening.

A blinding flash of light accompanied a sonic boom so loud that Ampheres found himself blasted to the ground, his sword flying from his hand as waves of pain broke over him. He cried out, his voice shrill and painful to his own throbbing ears. From Evaemon's headless body a pillar of light shot upward, bursting through the temple's high ceiling and causing the entire stone structure to groan as if in agony. Ampheres tried in vain to rise to his feet, only to find himself tossed to the roiling floor of the temple once again. Tendrils of light and power arced throughout the chamber, destroying all that they touched and adding to the general chaos.

It was then, in the midst of this maelstrom, that the unthinkable happened.

From his massive throne, the beheaded statue of Poseidon seemed to stand and lurch forward. Ampheres found himself paralyzed by fear, unable to even attempt to move aside as the mountainous representation of the god continued to fall forward, its stone legs buckling beneath it, and its shadow falling ominously over the prone immortal. Ampheres screamed as Poseidon fell upon him, crushing him beneath its unmovable bulk.

An instant later, Ampheres' screams were lost as the temple, rather the entire island, was swallowed by the furious and vengeful sea…

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_March 11, 2007_

_Chicago, IL_

Dmitri slumped against the door.

He gasped for breath, one hand held firmly over his chest in a vain attempt to stop the nearly painful throbbing of his heart. Sweat drenched him, though the night—more like early morning, truly—was cool by any standard, and his body shook with chill. The last son of Sparta clenched his eyes shut, trying to calm himself before entering his home, lest Sarah be awake and he unintentionally scare her.

Dmitri had run all the way back home without stopping, or even slowing for that matter. A distance that had taken the immortal almost two hours to walk earlier in the evening had been reduced to just under one as he'd ran, often casting wary glances behind him and, of course, drawing far too much attention to himself.

He probably would have made it back even sooner had he not been forced to evade the police as well as his mysterious assailant.

Finally satisfied that he was calmed enough, Dmitri unlocked the door with shaking hands, slipping inside soundlessly. After securing the door behind him once more, the dark-haired immortal crept cautiously through his dwelling, some part of him fearing that the sword-wielding titan of a man had beaten him here, and was only waiting in the shadows to finish what he had started.

Dmitri was afraid.

It was something that he'd not felt in… well, something that he hadn't _ever_ felt, in all of his long, long life. The sensation was alien to him, and that alone was enough to fuel this fear even more. What was it about that man that had struck such a cord with him? What was it that could make a battle-hardened, battle-trained Spartan warrior so jittery with fear within his own home that he could scarcely take a step without jumping at some imagined sound or presence?

A sound from behind caused Dmitri to spin suddenly, knocking over a rather rare and expensive statuette from the Amazon basin and causing it to smash into dozens of pieces on the hard stone floor. His eyes narrowed, scanning the darkness for any sign of an intruder as the echo from the destroyed relic reverberated throughout the expansive mansion. He was tempted to reach out and flick on the light switch, yet for some reason a fear of what he may actually see in the light outweighed his sudden and irrational fear of the all encompassing darkness.

_Relax, you're making a fool out of yourself_, the Spartan chided himself, clenching his eyes shut and ordering his mind and body to be calm. _There is nothing, no one here!_

"Dmitri?"

He actually screamed, though perhaps "scream" wasn't the right word. A strangled sound of fear and shock escaped his dry lips, and he staggered against the wall, his arm shooting out and hitting the light switch, despite his earlier reticence. Light flooded exploded around him, blinding him for a moment as his eyes adjusted.

Sarah stood before him, pale as a ghost.

"Dmitri!" she cried, seeing for the first time the stricken look upon her lover's face. The young woman rushed to him, her bed-robe billowing out behind her as she took the trembling immortal into her arms, holding him tightly against her. Sarah's warmth seemed to infuse Dmitri, for his tremors stopped and his breathing returned to normal as he clung to her, eyes clenched shut and sweat still running freely down his face.

After a moment, Dmitri pulled away from Sarah's embrace, making his way purposefully toward the living room. His fists were clenched, and his face was a stony mask as the fear that had been possessing him shifted into something else entirely: cold, calculated rage. How _dare_ a mortal cause him to feel such fear? Were his brethren of old alive to see him now, surely they would have been laughing amongst themselves, making sport of brave Demetrius' terror. He entered the spacious living room, his boots echoing against the hardwood floor as he strode resolutely to stand before the fire place, the embers from their earlier fire still glowing dully, casting a red tint to Dmitri's fine features.

Sarah entered the room slowly, cautiously.

"Dmitri, what's going on? Did something happen?"

"Something _has_ happened," he replied, his voice colder than she'd ever heard before. The Spartan, reached up, taking hold of the hilt of his _xiphos_ sword and pulling it down from where it had hung unused for so long. Dust lay heavy upon the blade, and the bindings of the hilt were slowly unraveling, for it had been almost sixty years since Dmitri had even _touched_ the weapon. To his eyes, it always seemed as if Scherez's blood was still fresh upon the blade…

"What are you doing with that?" Sarah asked, her eyes wide as she watched Dmitri caress the blade, almost lovingly. "Please, Dmitri, tell me what's going on." She moved across the room to stand at his side, her hand reaching out to him, but stopping just before contact was made. Something in the Spartan's eyes warned against such an action. "Dmitri…?"

As she whispered his name, the feral, bloodthirsty glow seemed to fade from Dmitri's eyes, and he suddenly remembered again who he was. Or, rather, who he was _now_, for the murderous, cruel warrior that he had been in ages past was no more. Still, though, for just a brief moment, Dmitri knew that he had almost lost control; that the fierce creature he once was had nearly come once again to the fore.

He shivered.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, resting the _xiphos_ upon the mantel but _not_ hanging back where it had spent so much time on the wall. He turned, gazing into Sarah's eyes and seeing there a fear that must have matched his own. But there was something else there as well, hidden behind the fear… Curiosity, perhaps? Dmitri wasn't sure.

"Come on," the emerald-eyed woman said softly, taking Dmitri by the hand and leading him toward the sofa. She sat down, patting the space next to her and beckoning your lover to sit. When he finally did so, she stared at him long and hard, saying, "Tell me what happened, Dmitri. Tell me everything."

And, though he knew he shouldn't, Dmitri began recounting the night's events, feeling some of the weight leaving his shoulders as he did so.

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_March 11, 2007_

_Seattle, WA_

Joe awoke to the pounding at his door.

The room he'd been put up in by the Watchers here in their new American headquarters was lavish: a plush king-sized bed, big screen LCD television, a fully stocked mini bar, and a pair of massive windows that afforded an amazing view of the city. Be that as it may, though, Joe knew that despite the comforts this room was little more than a cell, for the door was always locked and he knew that a pair of guards never seemed to leave the room unattended.

Still, there were a lot worse cells he could've found himself in.

"Hold your horses, I'm coming," he shouted groggily, swinging out of bed and reaching for his prosthetic legs and cane. A few moments later, the former Watcher made his way slowly to the door, clad only in a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, and still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The heavy curtains were pulled over the windows, so he had no clue what time of night—or morning—it might be.

"Hurry it up, Dawson," a voice—Herrera's to be precise—sounded from outside the room. "Something's come up." A click of the lock and a turn of the knob later, the door swung open. Herrera strode in, taking a moment to look Joe up and down before speaking.

"Get dressed, now," the young Watcher instructed, gesturing toward the pile of Joe's clothes on the floor at the end of the bed. "Mr. Webster needs to see you." The young man stopped for a moment, his intense brown eyes locked on Joe as the older man began to dress himself as quickly as possible. "He says it's urgent.

"Well," Joe replied, pulling his shirt on and buttoning it up before walking with the aid of his cane toward Herrera. "We better not keep him waiting, then." The bearded man gestured toward the door with his cane, tilting his head toward the exit as well.

"After you, pal."

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Thin dawn light filtered into Webster's office.

His currents were thrown back, revealing a dreamlike scene of the city draped in a thick layer of misty fog. As if the weather outside were somehow a mirror for his feelings, James Webster slouched in the chair behind his desk, his eyes surrounded by dark rings that most likely meant a long, sleepless night. Standing just behind him and to the left was Creed, who nodded a perfunctory greeting to Joe as he closed the door behind him.

"Dawson," Webster said, waving his hand absently toward one of the unoccupied chairs opposite his desk.

"Well, what's got you so cheerful this morning?" Joe asked, grunting heavily as he lowered himself into the proffered chair. "Don't tell me there's been another _incident_." Silence met this sarcastic comment, causing Joe to shift uneasily in his chair. "Wait a minute, you can't be serious. Guys, this 'Headhunter' only takes a head or two every _decade_; it's only been a few months since the last killing."

"We received a call about an hour ago from one of our agents in Chicago. A very old immortal was attacked last night in the city—"

"Damn it all, not another one," Joe interrupted.

"—and the attacker's M.O. matches the Headhunter. The immortal even claims that he was unable to sense his attacker's presence, which led him to believe he was being targeted by a mortal."

"Wait, wait, wait," Joe cut in once again. "This immortal _survived_? He managed to beat the Headhunter?"

It was Creed who answered. "Our agent tells us that the immortal ran away rather than staying to face the Headhunter. Actually, she believes the attack to have be perpetrated by a mortal as well, since only a few select members of the organization are privy to the knowledge that the Headhunter even exists."

"Well, I'll be damned," Joe replied, shaking his head in disbelief. "I guess the old saying about running away to fight another day's true after all, eh?" He sat back in his chair, his brow furrowed in deep thought. "An ancient immortal living in Chicago, huh? Let's see… That'd have to be Demetrius, right?"

If Webster was surprised by Joe's memory, he didn't show it. "He calls himself 'Dmitri' now. Took himself out of the Game half a century or so ago—"

"After he took his former teacher's head, yeah I know," Joe interrupted yet again. "They say that quickening changed him from a bloodthirsty, cold as steel warrior into… Well, like you said, he quit the Game." Joe leaned forward now, curiosity evident upon his features. "You know, the way you talked about it, you made it sound like Demetrius _told_ his Watcher about the Headhunter attack. Which, of course, would mean that he _knew_ about his Watcher, right? Now, I know I'm not one to talk, what with my relationship with Mac, but isn't that kind of against the rules?"

Herrera, who had moved to stand beside Creed, simply smiled. "The rules have changed, Dawson—"

Webster cut the young Watcher off with a wave of his hand. "Let's just say that we have an agent _very_ close to Dmitri. She's very good at what she does." He stood, turning his back to Joe as he gazed out upon the enshrouded, grey city. "But we're getting off the subject. I called you here, because I want your advice Dawson. Tell me," he said, looking back at Joe over his shoulder, "what do you think we should do?"

"You're asking _me_?" Joe responded, more than a little surprised. "Well," he said, settling back deeper into his chair. "If it were up to me, I'd do everything I could to contact all of the oldest immortals you guys got records on." At this, both Creed and Herrera looked appalled, yet Webster merely nodded.

"And then?" the Watchers' director asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Then you gather them all together in a safe place," Joe answered with a shrug. "It's too risky to have any of the old ones running about with this maniac out there. I mean think about it, what do you think would happen if this Headhunter character got the Prize?"

"You're crazy!" Herrera blurted. "To do what you propose, we'd have to reveal ourselves to… to dozens of them, and you can damn well bet that they'll spread the word! The immortals would know about us!"

"Can it, kid," Joe retorted. "God damn it, do you really think you guys have been _that_ secretive? Jesus, I'd wager that a lot more immortals know about you than you think."

"Sir?" Creed asked, turning his attention to Webster.

"Put out the call," the weary-looking Watcher answered with a sigh. "But Dawson," he turned to fully face Joe once more, "what are we supposed to do with them all when—_if—_we can convince them all to come?"

"That's a good question, boss," Joe said, shaking his head. "That's a damn good question…"

_To be continued…_


End file.
